Buck Armor (Beyond The Western Deep)
by minkspit
Summary: BWD fanfic. "Krissen was twelve years old when he got the last of his markings painted on him and became a full member of his tribe." The Ermehn tribe Hardin chose as sacrificial lambs faced problems long before he got to them.
1. Part I

Krissen was twelve years old when he got the last of his markings painted on him and became a full member of his tribe.

"Your son is going to be a big one," the shaman said approvingly, drawing her cloak around her own withered shoulders that had been repainted many, many times at the dawn of each spring. "He'll be as strong as a Canid."

Krissen's mother frowned, halfway displeased, because everyone wanted a_ plump_ pup, not a bulky one that would draw more attention to their ragged group. But a big pup was a better sign than a skinny wraith that seemed starved before their life started, and a big pup could fight well. Anyone who could fight well was likely to draw more breaths in the Northern Wastes.

"He may be," Krissen's mother said. "But don't mention the Canid. They trail us enough; I don't need them hiding in my son's shadow too."

The shaman finished painting the last stroke, and Krissen's mother let go of Krissen's paw. Krissen straightened up.

Adult Ermehn didn't need anyone holding their paws.

* * *

"Just thought of something funny, Faegar. Wanna know?"

"You'll tell me anyway no matter the answer."

"If you thought about getting bigger as much time as you snapped at me and Krissen, you'd be as tall as a mountain by now."

"No one wants to hear you, Emarose."

"It's still not my fault you're short," Krissen said. He moved aside as they undid a rope around their tent. He tugged at one pole that had been wiggling earlier. Beside him, another Ermehn pulled down the tent covering, and she grinned as the bare wood frame revealed itself and the short, dull-furred Ermehn across them gave a huff.

"Oh no, Krissen. You made Faegar mad," Emarose said. "Now he's going to piggyback on you all the way up the mountain, because some of the pebbles in the way are bigger than he is—"

"Little sister," Faegar said primly, tipping up his nose as he coiled a rope in his paws, "I am going to whack your nose if you don't _shut up_."

Krissen gave a quiet laugh. Faegar turned a sour eye on him as he brought down one of the spindly tent poles.

"Same goes for you, little brother. Don't think I won't."

Emarose nudged Krissen with her elbow and stood up on her tiptoes while Faegar was distracted with helping their parents. Krissen bent his head down to hear her.

"He'll have to find something to stand on to reach you first," she whispered in his ear.

Krissen held back a snicker. Faegar didn't do anything, but he gave them one of his disdainful looks that said_ 'pups'_ before he went back to taking inventory. Their mother and their father were gathering up their satchels and keeping careful count of the tools and food. All around them, other families of Ermehn were gathering their tents into bundles of poles, ropes, and cloth as they folded up their homes and prepared to march away. Emarose and Krissen began to strip down what was left of their tent to join them.

The smell of spring and melting ice poured through all the cracks in the mountains. Layers of frost were pooling into puddles that made mountain passes sticky with silt, and watered the green pines around them. Zephyrs stirred the Ermehn like sapling leaves. The unlocking of the winds meant the unlocking of the ice walls up north, and that meant the Ermehn could go up into the mountain passes without freezing.

The further up in the mountains they were, the further they were from the Canid. Distance was always good.

Krissen could feel the cool rock beneath his feet, and his fur was beginning to get itchy and loose. His mother was already helping the other Ermehn mothers and elders gather the berries for making dye. Krissen had only had his full set of markings for two years, but he was familiar with how to repaint them after last winter's end. His father and mother had redrawn each other's markings, and Krissen, Emarose, and Faegar had lined up from youngest to oldest and sat down to work on each other's backs.

Faegar sat at the rear of the line, filled with constant gentle chides at Emarose for moving too much. He was the oldest out of them, but he was the smallest. Something in his body had snapped and refused to grow anymore after his eighth year, and he was stunted and short; a strangled weed stuck on an alpine cliff. He had survived his first three years, but his size didn't bode well. The tribe had believed he was picked for early death.

When Faegar grew older, he was almost immediately bumped into adult status. The crops were bad, if the Ermehn could even get to them, the Canid patrol had tightened, and the tribe had lost several of their members to Canid and illness that year. Someone needed to take their place. Even if temporarily.

Faegar's ascent to adulthood was rushed and unceremonious. He was plucked out of home and delivered to the shaman's abode at almost his tenth year, and the remainders of his markings were applied with little to no prayer before he was hastily passed back out into camp with the seal of adulthood from the shaman. No one objected when he was sent out on scouting parties with Ermehn six winters his senior. He had his markings. That was all an Ermehn above three years needed to safely make it to the afterlife.

But Faegar was harder to kill than he looked, his warped size aside, and he stayed alive. Emboldened by hope, his parents had brought Emarose into the world four years later after having Faegar, and Krissen a year after that. And now here the three siblings were. When they were sitting down to work on their markings for spring, Emarose was in the middle, making faces at Faegar's scolding and poking Krissen's back while she repainted him.

At home, she was normal; under the eyes of the tribe, she never silenced. Faegar sparred with her words the most, while Krissen only received a few insults and noogies. Emarose had endless reserves of sass, but the majority of it was saved for their elder sibling. It rarely appeared in their family's company as much as it did in front of everyone else.

"I don't want to be _laughed_ at, y'know," she had explained to Krissen one day while they were out scouting. Her full set of markings were fresh on her fur from her ascent last year. Emarose raised her spear and looked down the end of it, eying the woolly caterpillar that was thinking of crawling up the end. "It's one thing to listen to Faegar and nod with all of his scolding at home, but not in public. He knows it too.

"I mean," Emarose said, flicking the caterpillar away with her spear tip, "when you meet another tribe up in the mountains and you don't know a thing about them, and they don't know a thing about you, what're they going to think if they see an Ermehn being bossed around by someone half their size who the wastes should've eaten? Not good things. I'm not saying Faegar's not right about a lot of things, because he is; he's right a lot. And I'm not saying I want him to go away! But sometimes you just can't _agree_ with him flat out. Other people get the wrong idea. You just gotta do what he says but pretend to argue and win first," she said. "That's why he doesn't argue back when anyone is watching. He gets it."

Emarose gave Krissen a look when he picked the woolly caterpillar up and set it back on its stump.

"I don't think you do, though."

Krissen shrugged.

"I don't like arguing with Faegar," he admitted, "whether it's fake or not. Or arguing at all."

"Yeah, numbskull, I can tell," Emarose said, leaping up on the stump to ruffle the fur on Krissen's head.

"Hey!" he growled, trying to push her back, and she laughed and ruffled his fur once more before he managed to shove her off the log.

Now, all the woolly caterpillars had long fled, and Krissen's family was unbundling the thick wraps from their limbs and leaving with them. Next to them, their Uncle Nothik and his family were gathering up their family and tent, and their Aunt Peony was trying to clean the face of the unmarked pup she had balanced on her hip, muttered chides to him the whole time as he squeaked in protest.

"Mom! Mom, no! Nooo!"

"If you have a dirty face, your markings will never stick and you'll never grow up. I'll be scrubbing your face forever," Aunt Peony said. She flicked his nose. "You want to get big like your cousin Krissen, don't you?"

The cub wrinkled his nose in protest, going cross-eyed to look at it before he frowned in protest.

"Yeah, but I don't—I don't wanna face scrubbin' right now—!"

"Listen to your mother, Jaken," Uncle Nothik said, moving back as he and Krissen's father pulled down their tent. Nothik's daughter, a slender echo of her mother with three of her markings, scurried back and forth as she carried bundles of ropes in her arms. "You can be squirmy all you want later when we're settled again, alright?"

Krissen and Emarose finished binding the last of the poles up, and Faegar wound their ropes into one bag. They finished dismantling Uncle Nothik's tent and helped him wrap up its parts. By that point, the other families around them were set to go, and only the last minute burying of fire pit ashes or little moves to hide their trails were being made.

Krissen's father surveyed all of their preparations with approval before he and Krissen's mother picked up their bags, and Krissen and his siblings did the same. Jaken quieted down and finally snuggled into the sling on Aunt Peony's back meant for carrying him, though not without a last few squeaks of protest.

Krissen could feel excitement rolling in his belly again like he did every spring. The Ermehn camp had clipped all their strings, and with the command from the shaman, elders, and tribe guardian up ahead, the tribe lurched forward, slowly spreading into an arrow of red tent cloth, markings, and green and black cloaks swirled together.

Their roots were jerked up again. It was time to go.

* * *

The first fight with Uncle Nothik happened when they passed by a gutted Ermehn fortress.

It was a broken shell of nothing. Krissen could see gaps of light shining through its sides, and the rock slumped into a pile of rubble and rotted cloaks and dying breaths the winter had eaten away. The fortress' remains were shorter than even the sapling pine trees around the trail. Faegar, Emarose, and Krissen ignored it, and the rest of the tribe did the same. Dead things were dead. Staring at them longer didn't change things.

Uncle Nothik, on the hand, couldn't stop looking at it. His sable-furred body seemed to quiver with all the rage it couldn't hold. It only grew worse when he saw the dull way the other Ermehn were looking past it.

"You would think they didn't remember when it was filled with Ermehn five years ago," he said, grinding his teeth. "All of them. Look at them; pretending it never was. All thanks to the Canid."

Aunt Peony laid a paw on his shoulder, leaning close and glancing at the tribe around them.

"Nothik," she muttered, "don't do this now."

Nothik bristled further when the word 'Canid' burned his tongue. Krissen saw his parents exchanging looks, and Faegar was sneakily trying to usher Emarose beside him so she wasn't next to their uncle. Their little cousin—besides the sleeping Jaken—was nowhere to be seen.

"This is why the Canid chase us," Nothik said, his eyes filled with contempt as they swept from the fortress to the tribe. "We forget everything since our brains are filled with frozen muck. Maybe if we remembered how to fight instead of how to run, this wouldn't happen."

"Nothik," Peony pleaded. Everyone five families around could hear them. Ears were perked. Krissen saw a brown paw blotting out part of the cream streak down Aunt Peony's belly. It took Krissen a moment to realize that his missing cousin was tucked behind her.

"Nothik, be quiet," Krissen's mother said, stepping up. "You're talking about stupid things and humiliating your wife; just close your jaws for once."

"Everyone's heads are filled with sludge," Uncle Nothik said, louder, "including the shaman's, and my own _sister's_."

His fur was on end, and Krissen's mother pinned back her ears in response. Hostility spilled out between them. Aunt Peony looked ready to die of shame as multiple eyes traveled over to view the two siblings glaring at each other. Faegar was trying to quiet Emarose's questions without anyone seeing him.

"My head may be filled with sludge, brother," Krissen's mother said coldly, "but at least it isn't spilling from my mouth."

Krissen's father interfered before Uncle Nothik could speak again.

"Enough," he said. "You started what you wanted. Now let it die."

Nothik swelled with anger, and Krissen swallowed as a spark of discomfort arched up his spine when his uncle's eyes flitted over him and Faegar.

"Oh, aye," Nothik said. "And you know _plenty_ about leaving things to die—"

"Nothik, please," Peony said, and Nothik stopped when he heard her whisper. Emarose was gaping from the background, but Faegar quickly elbowed her side, and Emarose shut her mouth and stared down at her older brother before giving her uncle a wary and wide-eyed look. "I just got Jaken to sleep. It's only the beginning of the journey. Please, don't do this now…"

Uncle Nothik crumpled when he saw her exhausted expression. He begrudgingly backed off, and Krissen's mother crossed her arms and returned her original place, refusing to look at him. Krissen could still see Uncle Nothik fuming and his scruff sticking up in prickling needles. He grumbled a few more things beneath his breath, but Aunt Peony patted his shoulder and nuzzled into his neck while she muttered a few things back, and Uncle Nothik quieted with a sour look on his face.

Krissen glanced back at the fortress to see what had made him so angry, but all he saw was another gutted shell they passed all the time in the wastes.

* * *

"He took his temper to the shaman and the tribe guardian and ended up fighting with them."

"Nothik has never been levelheaded."

"To the _shaman_, Rathan," Krissen's mother growled. Krissen stopped outside their tent to listen. A faint glow leaked from beneath the tent flap. Faegar and Emarose were out scouting, but Krissen had come back to retrieve a whetstone. Krissen could make out the two black blobs of his parents' shadows. "It's one thing if he wants to spout his fiery foolishness to us, but if he's going to argue with the shaman and tribe guardian about ideas that will get us all killed, that's something else."

Rathan sighed, and Krissen could picture his back slumping. "Ashta, we invited him to travel with us this time. We knew he was going to do this."

"He's walking out on ice when there is none," Ashta said. "Frostbite knows I want to keep an eye on him to make sure he keeps his hide in one piece, but we're having enough trouble already without him trying to stir things up."

"If he wants to strike out on his own, he can," Rathan said. His shadow moved closer to Ashta's as he looped an arm around her shoulders, and she sighed and allowed it. "We have to help him this spring since we promised that to him and Peony. But if he wants to keep talking about rebellion later—he can travel with another family or tribe that wants it."

Ashta gave a half chuckle. Krissen began to sneak off, begging his heavier footsteps not to give him away.

"It's hard to want something when you know it'd be useless," Ashta said.

* * *

When they settled on the south side of the mountain for a season, and the tribe finished drawing the circle of their camp around them and finally grew comfortable in their perch on the rocks, Faegar started pestering Krissen.

"You need to do something else besides just scout and sentry," Faegar said, sharpening a stake with his knife. Beside him, Krissen sorted through the good feathers he had plucked from a ptarmigan. Emarose and their father needed more feathers to repair their arrow fletches with. Faegar peeled off another sliver of wood with the edge of his blade.

"Like what?" Krissen said, though he kept a casual tone to his voice. He didn't want to push Faegar down this route again.

Faegar gave him a withering glare.

"Look at yourself," he said, gesturing his knife at Krissen's wide shoulders and chest. "What do you think you should do?"

"Help carry heavy supplies and scout," Krissen said.

Faegar held back a huff at the stubborn look on Krissen's face. He set aside the stake near the stones of the fire pit.

"Krissen, you need to fight," he said. "At your size, you could easily be tribe guardian. At least show some interest in more sparring and the first line of defense—"

"We don't have any lines of defense; that's what everyone with markings is," Krissen said, setting aside a brown-speckled feather where the wind couldn't carry it away.

He had seen the tribe guardian before and the small pool of younger Ermehn vying to one day take her place. It was easy to pick them out at sparring practice. All of them carried themselves with cold steel of resolve, no matter the weapon, and they were always the first ones on the field and the last ones to leave when they weren't serving the tribe. They veered between a vicious determination to protect everyone and the urge to incapacitate one of their rivals to throw them out of running.

When he looked at their set faces and their paws wrapped around their weapons, Krissen didn't get the impression that they would kill someone—they would _maul _them. If they had just had the intent to kill, Krissen wouldn't have minded, but it was the sheer intent to hurt lingering around them that made him uncomfortable. Every Ermehn had to kill at one point or another to keep their tribe safe from Canid and other enemies. Not every Ermehn looked as if they would pin their opponent down and punch them in the throat until they wheezed for mercy, and then deny them that.

The tribe guardian was no better. Krissen had seen her consulting with the shaman and the shaman's son. She was a one-eyed stretch of lithe muscle and scars that started at intimidating and ended at terrifying. Krissen found her a monolith; she had been tribe guardian since before he was born, and it was impossible to believe she would one day be replaced. Then he saw the hungry and lean faces of her young successors-in-training, and he could believe it.

"You know what I mean," Faegar snapped. "You need to reach something better than camp tender if you can, and I know you can."

"What's wrong with keeping the camp stocked?" Krissen said.

"There's nothing wrong with it," Faegar said, continuing to sharpen his stake, "but that's not the _point_; it's harder to be a fighter, but everyone cares for them more because they can't afford to lose them. They're not like the camp rabble everyone has to drag around."

Faegar sliced off a piece of wood harder than he needed to. Krissen stared at him. Faegar didn't look back, intently staring at his knife blade as it flashed up and down and flicked wood chips onto the floor. He was even shorter when he was crouched over. Krissen opened his mouth as he searched for something to say.

They were interrupted when Emarose popped around the corner, her fingers dirty with blood and wet feather down. She waved at them with one arm.

"Hey, boys," she said, stepping out from behind their tent and raising the pink body of a ptarmigan by the wings—its flopping head and neck still attached—"look what I gooot! Faegar, you're done making the spit, right? Mom has one more of these things to finish skinning, and she and Aunt Peony want to get them cooked before we all starve to death."

"Almost finished, Ema," Faegar said, cutting off a rough knob on the branch. He paused. "…why does it still have its head?"

"What? Oh, right," Emarose said, lifting the bird up and kicking one drumstick forward. "Because you can't say 'hello' without a head, of course. Say hello to Dinner!" she said, flapping both of its pink wings.

Krissen waved back while Faegar eyed the ptarmigan's flopping head.

"If you drop that, dad is going to kill you. …why did you name it Dinner? Was there nothing else? You might as well name your child Child with that imagination."

"Faegar is jealous of your name," Emarose said, lifting up the bird and speaking matter-of-fact to its limp head. "He has a grudge towards names it's impossible to make stupid nicknames from. Isn't that right, Faefae?"

"Get out," Faegar growled, but his ears were playfully pinned back. "Go make yourself useful, Emarose. Cooking these things takes a few hours, and I'd rather eat before sundown."

"You're the one with the spit, doofus," Emarose said, shifting both of the ptarmigan's wings to one paw as she walked over and extended the other. "I'm kinda waiting on you."

Faegar passed her the stake, and Krissen licked his lips at the hanging form of the bird. Faegar lightly jabbed his shoulder.

"Not all of that is for you, cavern-belly," he said. "We all need to eat too."

"Sorry that my stomach is a ravine," Krissen said. He made wide eyes at Faegar. "But you'd feed more to your starving little brother, right?"

Faegar hit him again.

* * *

Daylight was bleeding into evening, and words bled into something else.

"I am not going to let my family rot to death up here," Uncle Nothik said. He gestured back at Aunt Peony, and Jaken and his older sister, who were clutching their mother's paws behind him. "Look at us. We're all starving and slowly freezing to death year after year in a bunch of rags that keep getting thinner. My wife deserves far better, my children deserve far better—I'm not letting anyone keep us from leaving any longer."

The circle of Ermehn gathered around them whispered like a challenge had been issued. The tribe guardian had crossed her arms. Krissen could hear his mother uttering oaths under her breath about how stupid her hardheaded brother was, but she was trembling, and Krissen's father was squeezing his arm around her waist.

The shaman studied Nothik's traveling garb and the same way his family was dressed.

"Then go," she said.

* * *

Nothik and his family left the tribe when summer came. This time, Krissen's family didn't pack up their tent alongside them.

Uncle Nothik and Aunt Peony pulled apart their shelter and folded its bones into one bundle, and they worked to put what little they had into bags. Around them, the rest of the tents were motionless. Theirs was only the one coming down. The mountains were blue blobs against grey sky in the background but layered, jagged shelves beneath the Ermehns' feet. Patches of grass sprung up around the camp outskirts or whenever there was a spot of dirt. Neither the Ermehn camp nor the grass were rooted down that tight, but both were making an effort.

The tribe continued their daily chores without pause—albeit with a few side-glances at the activity around Nothik's tent. Part of their kinfolk was vanishing, but it hadn't ended in violence, and that was the most anyone could ask for. In return, they could spare the family some dignity without gawking at them. The tribe pretending the departure wasn't happening.

Krissen's family was no different. Through the entire tent dismantling, his mother fixedly stared past them, and their father was as calm and unconcerned as if Uncle Nothik and Aunt Peony didn't exist and weren't bustling around their home to tear it down. Faegar had vanished. Emarose and Krissen eventually left on a random errand just to get away from the atmosphere.

Krissen was bringing in firewood with Emarose when he noticed the last bit of his relatives' home was gone. A rippled of movement passed through the tribe. They shuffled aside to make way for the departing Ermehn. Krissen glimpsed Uncle Nothik, bearing the majority of the supplies with his hood draped around his neck, and behind him came Aunt Peony, draped in her traveling shawl and carrying her own bags and Jaken on her back. Even their daughter was loaded down, and she clung to her father's free paw.

As they left, Aunt Peony caught Krissen's eye. She gave him an apologetic smile before she turned back to follow Uncle Nothik, and they wound between the tents and out of sight.

Things were supposed to be better in the south, Krissen thought. Nothik was willing to try their chances.

Krissen hoped his uncle was right, for his family's sake.


	2. Part II

Rathan spoke up about it before anyone else did, though it was common knowledge that had been peacefully humming within the family for a while.

"By the teeth of the wind," he said, laying his paws on Krissen's shoulders and looking him up and down—and 'up' meant tipping his head up; Krissen was taller—"you've outgrown me."

Krissen had known that for a long time, but it didn't keep a flutter of pride from moving within his chest. Years up north would either lay an Ermehn low or make them stand taller. But all of Krissen's family, the shortest included, were good at standing tall.

"'Course he has," Ashta said, crossing her arms over her shawl. "I told you my son would be big. He couldn't stay our little kit forever."

"Mom," Krissen said, rolling his eyes, but he was smiling.

Rathan chuckled and tapped his knuckles against Krissen's marked collar. Four years of bearing the markings, and now Krissen felt the tribe's touch was melted into his skin. Rathan's paw lingered, as if he was going to teach Krissen how to apply his stripes for the first time again, but he pulled back.

"I know," he said.

* * *

They were in part of the rockiest, most deserted portion of the Northern Wastes, where each step felt like walking on the flat of a dagger, and the edges of Krissen's world were on fire.

"Run!" Rathan yelled, shoving Ashta and Faegar forward, and the Ermehn were screaming as the flaming tents on the camp outskirts collapsed and the Canid advanced. Emarose had her bow strung. Lines of ash slicked her face. Krissen wielded a blade identical to his father's, and Faegar and Ashta had shorter daggers. All of the family was dirtied. Krissen tried not to choke as he breathed in smoke and smell of burning bodies.

Ashta was coughing, but Faegar pushed her forward, keeping her steady. He was bleeding from a cut on his leg and his eyes sockets were hollow and dark, but Krissen didn't know if they were blackened or if it was from his attempt to put out the fire. All around them, Ermehn fled, carrying the bare necessities they could wrestle from their tents. The elders and the kits fled with the weak before they all went up in flames.

Weapons clashed as the able-bodied stayed back to give the others enough time to escape, and Krissen could see the tribe guardian on the brink of the fiery chaos, the ribbon of her body twisting as she slashed through throats and cut the straps of armor. All of her rising successors were around her, screaming things at the invading Canid tearing apart the camp. The rest of the tribe was behind them, holding up a ragged shield of defense, but they were wavering in the face of the Canid. More howls filled the air than Ermehn cries.

Rathan was separated from Emarose and Krissen when the tide of the struggle turned, but they didn't get the chance to retreat and regroup with their family. Emarose had strung another arrow to her bow when they heard a piercing scream. She and Krissen whipped around. A Canid loomed over the fallen body of the shaman's son. He was on the ground with his eyes rolled skywards, and his lower arm barely hung on by a few threads of flesh and splinters of bone.

"Damnit!" Emarose said, drawing back her bowstring, and she shot at the Canid. The arrow hit its shoulder breastplate and glanced off, taking a notch from the back of its neck. The Canid yelped in surprise before standing, and its ears pinned back in fury when it saw them.

"Krissen, incoming!" Emarose yelled as the Canid barreled towards them. She strung her bow and shot at it again, but the arrow thudded into the shield the Canid had picked up, and it didn't halt. Krissen raised his sword as the Canid hit them, and metal rang as the Canid brought down its sword against Krissen's.

Krissen struggled to keep the Canid's sword from bearing down on him. His arms shuddered in exertion and the Canid bared its teeth in frustration as it tried to push him back. Emarose had switched her bow for her archer's pick, and she stabbed at the Canid's stomach and ribs to force it away from Krissen, leaving dark pockets of red scattered around its chest. It dropped its shield as she sliced open its lower arm. The Canid reeled back, its sword and Krissen's separated with a clatter, and it backhanded Emarose across the face. Emarose hit the ground like a stone, spluttering as she coughed and spat out bloody pieces of enamel from where the Canid's metal bracelet had caught her in the teeth.

While she was on the ground, the Canid raised its leg, preparing to stomp her mouth into the rock, and fear stabbed Krissen deeper than any blade. His mind shut off, and Krissen launched towards the Canid and head-butted it in the stomach. Krissen felt the Canid's breath leave it with an _oomph_. Its sword cut a line along his shoulder before it was wrenched out of the Canid's grip. Krissen and the Canid slammed into the ground, and Krissen tasted blood and fur while screams rang in his ears.

The Canid was kicking at Krissen's side, and Krissen wheezed as he tried to rise. Emarose had staggered up, but the whole wave of Ermehn had retreated while the Canid advanced, and they were being overwhelmed. They needed out, and they needed out now; Krissen ignored the wrench in his chest and made his choice. Krissen rolled off the Canid. The stone bit into his knees.

As Krissen scrambled to look for a weapon, the Canid flipped over onto its paws and knees. Krissen grabbed a rock as the Canid dizzily shook its head. The Canid's yellow eyes widened momentarily as it saw Krissen raise the stone above his head, but its protests died in a yelp as Krissen brought down the boulder on the Canid's skull. Krissen felt the crack even as the Canid's eyes rolled up. _I'm sorry,_ Krissen thought as the Canid went down, though the sorry was tiny and buried beneath the roar in his head to _run._

An arrow thudded into the ground by his feet, and Krissen yelped and leaped back. Emarose was pulling up the shaman's son by his good arm and letting his bloody form lean against her, and he whimpered as the Canid archers advanced.

"Frig, Krissen, help me; he can't walk!" Emarose said, trying to shove the shaman's son's lolling head up. Krissen knelt and fumbled with the armor straps on the fallen Canid's chest. He pulled off its breastplate and jerked it on as more arrows sank into the crumbling forms of the tents around them. He didn't know if the Canid was dead or not, but it didn't matter; Krissen's pulse bounced in his veins and his heart was trying to burst against his ribs.

Krissen scooped up the shaman's son in his arms, and the other Ermehn gave a pained groan and shuddered. Emarose drew back another arrow with a sheet of blood dripping from her mouth, and both of the siblings took off with fire on their heels and howls reverberating in their ears.

* * *

On a hill above the burning camp, a tawny-furred Canid with a web of scars across the side of his mouth and neck watched the Ermehn retreat in a cloud of smoke and burning tents. A brown Canid with stained chainmail and a spear slung over her shoulder came up to greet him. He turned, and she saluted.

"Daral, sir, they're retreating," she said. "Point Lead Varguss says they're done. The Ermehn are heading back into the mountains."

"Good," he said. "Varguss didn't need our backup after all. Go tell the squad to move out and assist with retrieving the wounded; we'll be cleared out of here before another hour is past."

The brown Canid bit her lip as she spotted the remaining Ermehn who were still fighting, eyeing them with predatory frustration. Her leader noticed.

"Second, you're here to assist," Daral said, "not to indulge in pointless fights. Keep control, Strika. You are not your younger sister."

"Yes, sir," Strikra said, forcing the begrudging tone out of her voice. She nodded to him. "Understood." Strika turned to the group of Canid lingering around a pile of boulders. "Ya heard him. Move your tails!" she barked. "We're going in for the wounded. Don't pursue the Ermehn; just get our soldiers out."

The squad moved to join their fellow Canid in the shambles of the Ermehn camp.

* * *

The aftermath of the Canid attack echoed through the tribe months after it had occurred. It made itself known in the empty spaces in camp where tribe members or tents had once been, and in the skittishness of the tribe's new travel route. Injuries strung everyone together as much as anything else—Krissen's mother kept coughing long after the smoke was gone, and the shaman's son had one less arm when he went around camp.

But some ripples of change were ones that were inescapable.

Krissen would hear the story from Emarose later since he wasn't there. Rathan had stayed back to worriedly attend to Ashta, and Faegar and Krissen had been out hunting. But Emarose was there when a young warrior challenged the tribe guardian. And she was watching when, after a brutal fight that lasted almost an hour, the young warrior Conva brought the tribe guardian to her knees.

Conva had managed to drive his blade into the side of the guardian's leg while she was blindsided. She had hit the ground—"She was injured after the Canid raid," Emarose told Krissen, "but by frostbite she was still terrifying when her old wounds ripped open; that didn't slow her much"—and her protégé had held a dagger to her throat.

There was a moment of dead silence when the crowd stopped cheering and both warriors stared at each other. The young warrior's chest was heaving as he looked at his kneeling mentor. One of Conva's eyes kept twitching since blood was dripping down it from the claw slash he had taken across the face, and both of the Ermehn were exhausted, muddied, and bloodied. Their tartan garb was a filthy maroon rather than green.

"For a moment," Emarose had admitted to Faegar and Krissen, "I didn't think she was going to give it up. I thought she was going to bare her throat and tell him to slit it or try to make him eat his own blade and die trying."

But she didn't. After they stared each other down, the tribe guardian finally lowered her head in deference and forced her unhurt leg up: she kneeled. Conva had taken in a shaky breath, turned to the audience, and raised his fist in victory. The Ermehn cheered.

The old tribe guardian had gotten up and limped out of the ring. No one helped her. The shaman paused her for a moment to press both paws against her shoulders and mutter something, giving an aged smile of thanks, and the warrior had nodded before brushing the shaman aside and moving on. She had disappeared into the camp, a guardian no more. Emarose hadn't seen her since.

From behind the limping form of the now elder came Conva, his chest still heaving and body slick with blood and cuts, and he bowed his head to the shaman. She bowed her head back.

A tribe guardian deserved respect.

* * *

It was summer when Nothik returned.

He came back with no tent and no food. His clothes were torn, and he had his hood up to cover the tattered remains of his ears, which were shredded into nothing. Jaken, bigger and lankier than before—though still little—piggybacked on his father. One of his eyes was permanently closed in a wink at the world. He kept his face pressed against his father's shoulder and didn't bother to use his good eye. He might as well have lost both of them. The soles of Nothik's feet were worn thin with travel, and when he arrived at Krissen's tent, the family had gotten wind of who was coming. They lingered around the tent, not quite a wall and not quite a friendly welcome.

Krissen's mother was in the front of the group, and though she was wrapped in two shawls instead of one now and her face was leaner, she stood with poise as she watched her brother approach. She had stifled her coughs for now. Rathan was next to her, and the rest of the family was spread out around their parents. Nothik stopped several feet away, watching them.

Uncle Nothik's face and chest were thin, not the snappy kind of lithe he was before, but his eyes were emptier than anything else in his possession. The fire in them was extinguished. It was gone, like the rest of his traveling company but Jaken. Krissen would have rather seen more of his ribs than that. It was worse to see the same thing mirrored in Jaken's left eye—a shadow of his father's ashes.

As they got to the tent, Jaken jumped off his father's back, and he stretched his legs and pawed at his wraps, avoiding eye contact with them all. Nothik raised his paws in a plead. No words came out of his mouth. He didn't try to speak. Ashta's head moved in a barely perceptible nod, and she raised her arms in return, the shawls draping down her wrists in a soft rustle of cloth.

The two siblings embraced. Their bodies were thinner and more brittle than before, but they were alive. Ashta squeezed Nothik hard, and both of them closed their eyes for a minute when the world disappeared. There was nothing else to do.

Then Emarose knelt and stuck out her arms and broke the silence with a lilting "C'mere, Jaken; let's see how big you've gotten!" and the lanky kit who was no longer a bundle in his mother's arms squeaked and threw himself into his cousin's embrace with a cry of "Emaaaa!" Emarose picked him up and nipped at his fingers until he squealed, and after Jaken was done batting at her face and struggling, he immediately went to harass Faegar and climb Mount Krissen. Uncle Nothik hung back from all of it.

Ashta voiced no complaint when she saw the meager traveling satchel on Nothik's back, which was going to be set down wherever he stayed. Rathan, Faegar, Krissen, and Emarose said nothing when Uncle Nothik reappeared at night with Jaken and quietly took a place near their campfire. They moved over to make room, and Ashta began to teach Jaken how to whittle a stick into a whistle. The family made no remark when Uncle Nothik joined their traveling party in the morning; they merely chatted with him like he had never gone, and Rathan allowed Jaken to ride on his shoulders, since Nothik's shoulders looked too broken for it that day.

They didn't ask about Aunt Peony or his daughter. They didn't need words for that.

* * *

"There were Canid outside the camp borders," Faegar said to Uncle Nothik. Krissen swore he was voicing it as a challenge. "The tribe guardian and some others ran them away."

"I know."

"Krissen was one of the Ermehn who helped intimidate them and send them off." Faegar paused. Uncle Nothik's eyes skimmed over Krissen. They were as subdued as they had ever been. When Uncle Nothik gave no comment, he continued again. "We're passing an outpost now," Faegar said, pointing at the grey building in the distance. "Look, it's right before the forest, tucked behind the boulders."

Nothik looked over the outpost in the distance. He didn't need to shield his eyes from the sun with his hood up. Krissen hadn't seen Uncle Nothik pull it down for a single day since he had gotten back. Jaken squirmed as his fingers slipped from his father's paw, and he didn't try to put them back. He was trying to tell Nothik something, but his father wasn't registering him.

"Dad," Jaken said. "Dad._"_

"I see it," Uncle Nothik said.

"Are you seeing all of it?" Faegar said, leaning closer. "It's a big outpost. It's almost a fortress. It doesn't look like it's had anyone for two years; the walls haven't been torn down for long."

"Dad," Jaken said. "_Dad._" He was tugging on his father's leg now. "Dad, I need to ask you something—"

"It's an empty shell," Nothik said. "There's nothing to look at."

He turned back around, but in that moment, he seemed to realize his son existed and was talking to him. Nothik looked down at the kit pulling on his leg.

"What, Jaken?" he said.

"Dad," Jaken said, relieved at finally being heard, "some of the other kits were sayin' I was weird 'cause I have one eye. They said that's wrong and I'm wrong. Is that true?"

Nothik looked at Jaken for a few seconds, contemplating the answer in his head. He shrugged. Nothik turned back to the front and watched the Ermehn in front of him march, and Krissen could see Jaken torn between walking with Nothik or staying some distance behind him. Faegar's eyes lit up with anger at Jaken's unsure footsteps and the hesitation he held towards approaching his father's emotionless face. He immediately strode forward and grabbed Jaken's paw, and he pulled Jaken back with him, saving the kit from an awkward in-between. Jaken gave him an odd look, but he didn't say anything when Faegar's fingers fiercely closed around his.

"Hey, Faegar, are you alright?" Krissen said, seeing the look on Faegar's face and his faintly bristling fur.

"There's a difference between lying low out of common sense and giving up," Faegar said, keeping his voice controlled as he watched Nothik continue his mindless walk. "You have to have _pride, _you have to have _anger;_ you have to know you're worth stomping someone's teeth into the ground to stay alive, and I'll be damned if I let _him_ extinguish his son's spark because he doesn't have any fire left."

Jaken's ears perked up at the raw anger in Faegar's voice and the glare directed towards his father.

"Who's getting their teeth stomped out?" he said, a note of fear in his voice.

Faegar looked down at Jaken. Krissen saw him stifling the urge to snap at Uncle Nothik or to ruffle the fur on Jaken's head.

"No one," Faegar said, swinging the arm that had its fingers laced with Jaken's. "But the kits who were making fun of you are going to be quiet. Next time they say something, punch them in the face," he said. "Give them black eyes. Because the little kit who only has one eye can see a lot more than all of the blind ones rambling around with two."

Jaken's eyebrows rose, but he glanced over Faegar's bandaged paws and took a silent note of things.

"How many guys have you punched in the face because they thought you were messed up and said it to you?" Jaken said.

Faegar flexed his fingers. "Plenty," he said. His eyes lingered over Uncle Nothik.

"But not all of them."

* * *

The passage of time fixed some things. Maybe not entirely, but it served as a patch nevertheless. Yet it was a year after Nothik rejoined them, and one thing hadn't changed.

Emarose slowly leaned in towards Faegar. Krissen decided that Faegar looked as if he wanted to bite her nose off, but he was restraining himself. Rathan was trying not to chuckle, Ashta had a paw over her mouth as she restrained her laugher and coughs, leaning heavily on Rathan's arm, and Uncle Nothik almost had something that counted as a smile on his face. Jaken was off hitting something with a stick, yipping and being active with all the other Ermehn kits.

Emarose leaned in towards Faegar until she was a whisker's breadth away from his face, their noses almost touching. She had to lean down to do it. Faegar's jaw tightened.

"You're still short," she whispered to Faegar.

"I hate you," Faegar said, face grim. "I hate you oh so _much_."

Emarose started laughing, and she set off their father as well, who got a dirty look from Faegar. He gave Emarose one as well with a raise of his eyebrows towards the chuckling Uncle Nothik and Rathan: _do you see what you've started?_ Ashta smirked, and it only made Emarose laugh harder until she almost cried.

Krissen had to pick her up and haul her over his shoulder to get her to move.

* * *

Starving times were hard. When they came, they dragged down the crops and plants with their claws. They drained the rivers, they punctured the fruits and drained the juice from them, and sometimes, their claws caught the clothing of beasts in the way and dragged them down as well.

In the starving time of Krissen's eighteenth year, when their tribe was stripped barer of supplies than winter willows of bark, his mother went with their prosperity. Ashta had been consumed by coughs for the past two years. The barren land finished eating her. Faegar, Emarose, and Krissen gathered in a quiet clump of warmth, reminding each other that their hearts were still beating. Their uncle and father went away for a while, and Nothik laid his paw on Rathan's shoulder while the latter buried his face in his paws. It was one part of life that Nothik understood very, very well.

Later Nothik ended up kneeling in front of Jaken and trying to explain what happened to Aunt Ashta, but he and Jaken ended up hugging each other and sobbing. In the midst of all the tears, Nothik held Jaken close hard enough to break bones while he told him he was so _lucky_ to have him left, and it kicked off another round of crying from both of them. The whole incident wasn't pleasant to listen to, but when Krissen saw Jaken sniffling afterwards and leaning on his father's chest, and Nothik stroking his son's head, Krissen felt relief that they were finally where they needed to be and could start healing things again. It was the one good thing Krissen found in the whole situation.

The starving time dragged down more than half of the elders, all of the skinnier kits, and anyone who wasn't holding onto life hard enough to shatter their fingers. It was lucky that the shaman's son shielded his mother from misfortune, regardless of his own impairment. Had they lost her, they would have been finished. Conva was worn raw. He furiously ran around the remaining Ermehn to pull what was left together into a tribe instead of a handful of broken glass that would trickle out from between his fingers when it was squeezed, and when he wasn't doing that, he was protecting them all. But one could only challenge a starving time so well with a blade.

"We're going to be the death of him one day," Uncle Nothik muttered, watching Conva tear from one family to another, desperate to fulfill his role of tribe guardian against something even he could not fight. With all the tribe mates Krissen saw being buried, Krissen wasn't sure who was going to be the death of who any longer.

"It's never who you expect it to be," Faegar said when he and Krissen were alone, watching a family carry away the bundled body of their six year old kit to bury him. He had gotten past the infamous third year, and he had been sparky and alive until a few weeks ago. Krissen didn't understand how a kit could wither so quickly. "Life's funny that way."

"What do you mean?" Krissen said.

"Every winter up until this one," Faegar said, "and every starving time in the past twenty years, I've been one of the expected to die. But I'm still here. And every other time, it's taken someone else who everyone thought would make it. In the end, it doesn't matter what guesses you make," he said, watching the family progress out of sight with bitter amusement. "Fate will twist things however it likes. Whether you can stop it or not."

Krissen hugged him.

"Sometimes," Krissen said, "I'm alright with that."

Faegar laughed, not entirely happy, but his eyes were growing bright with hot tears, and he hugged Krissen back.

* * *

The Sratha-din came upon the tribe like a snake: no one saw them until they reared their head to strike.

"What's going on?" Emarose whispered to Krissen as they packed themselves into the watching crowd. The tribe hung back in a whispering lump of security as the five Ermehn filed into the camp. Mutters about a dead tribe were spreading through them one by one as they saw the leader's markings. "I'm not as tall as you are; tell me what's happening. I want to know."

Her wish was fulfilled when the crowd shifted, allowing the strangers to head to the middle of camp where the shaman, her son, and the tribe guardian were waiting to greet them. Krissen and Emarose moved forward, and they got a better look at the approaching Ermehn.

Their leader was a serious Ermehn in plaid with a cloak as dark as the thunderstorm of solemnity he brought over them. Krissen could practically feel the clouds of a storm front rolling over the camp as he strode in, holding his head up with something not haughty enough to be arrogance, but not low enough to be considered friendly. He looked at them the way Krissen's mother had used to look over broken supplies while trying to find something useful among them.

"Not getting close to him," Emarose muttered, eyeing the leader as he stopped to bow his head to the shaman. "Conva… Conva's not going to like that one." Krissen agreed with both of her statements.

True to her words, Conva was already sizing up the stranger in a few flicks of his eyes, and his handshake with the stranger was frosty and aloof. He didn't like the newcomer's air, and he didn't like his entourage, as small as it was. Conva had dealt with too many rivals and death stepping on his toes to ever trust anyone, Krissen thought. That was what came from pursuing a profession where his very mentor had tried to kill him.

The old Ermehn leaning on a staff behind his leader was more welcoming. He was worn as ragged as his clothes, both from travel and age, and his fur was silver-specked. He had one snaggletooth. Krissen was reminded of half of the elders they had lost in the starving time years back. This one, however, looked like he had just gotten out of the middle of a starving time already. Krissen assumed he was the group's shaman. There was no other role for him to fill.

"Older than the tundra," Emarose said, watching him pass. "I bet you could hear his bones creaking every time he moved if you got closer."

The Ermehn in the pair following him were opposites. One was a hooded, cloaked figure who moved with light steps and an almost jaunty air, and the other was a bruiser with a jaw as thick as a Canid's and no cover at all to hide his cocky excitement or red-marked chest.

"Spirits, Krissen, he's almost as big as you!" Emarose whispered, nudging Krissen in the side.

Apparently she wasn't the only one thinking the same thing, because a wave went through the tribe as they glanced back and forth between Krissen and the new arrival to make comparisons. The ripple of movement alerted the red-marked Ermehn, and he quickly followed the tribe's glances to find the object of appraisal pitted against him. His search didn't last long. It wasn't hard to spot someone a head taller than all of their tribe mates.

The red-marked Ermehn's lip curled when he found Krissen, and Krissen looked back at him with a neutral expression, guarding his internal anxiety. He didn't return the scrutinizing sweep of eyes the red-marked Ermehn gave him. Krissen stared fixedly ahead, face unchanged. As long as he acted passive—not cowardly, but not challenging—then the other would see no reason to consider him a threat for position of muscle of the tribe. He wasn't going to fight him.

The red-marked Ermehn received the message. He snorted and turned away, curiosity vanishing when he saw Krissen didn't have the aggression to match his. Krissen saw him mutter something to the cloaked figure tagging near him, and the smaller Ermehn laughed.

The last two of the group were the only females. One was a long-striding warrior with gold hoops in her ears, a short crossbow on her back, and a confidence radiating from her that outshone even their leader. Krissen knew it would be useless, but when he saw her crossbow and the look on her face that said she would be fine with bloodshed, he was grateful for the breastplate covering his chest. She and her bulky tribe mate in front of her had ferocity on their breath. Emarose made the same connection.

"They're going to get married or they're going to kill each other," Emarose said. "Or maybe both."

The last Ermehn was a smaller, softer female who looked as if she would she prefer a less dynamic entrance. Krissen noted the healing satchel on her back. She didn't move like someone who was used to being in the spotlight, though her strides didn't have the awkwardness of any novice. Krissen believed that if she could take a needle and thread from her satchel and sew up all the grievances in the meeting about to occur, she would. He instantly felt fonder towards her than the others on that fact alone.

"Medic girl better hope she can bandage things well," Emarose said, watching the whole group make it in front of the shaman. "Something tells me that lot wouldn't keep her around long if all she could do was be pleasant."

The civilities of the meeting didn't last long. Within a minute, terse words were being exchanged, and the shaman was uneasy. Conva bristled, and he was matched by the big Ermehn cracking his knuckles. Lines were being draw before words were even spoken. Five minutes after that, and the leader—Hardin—had challenged Conva to a death match for role of tribe guardian.

"He's insane," Emarose said, watching Hardin and Conva stride over the ring of stones being made for them to fight in, and the tribe was already cheering and taunting at the two as they stepped inside. Hardin's band had settled on a nearby rock. "Hardin or what's-his-face just came out of nowhere and challenged Conva without knowing a thing about him; what does he expect to happen? This isn't going to last too long," she said, crossing her arms with confidence, and she bore a sliver of her fangs as Hardin and Conva unsheathed their daggers. "Conva's going to kill him. C'mon, let's go watch. Faegar will be so mad he missed this."

Krissen stifled a sigh and let her drag him to the side of the ring. Emarose pumped her fist and began howling with the rest of the tribe as Hardin and Conva started to circle each other, leaving deep imprints in the blank snow.

* * *

Conva lasted less than an hour.

The fight was brief. There was blood, but it was nothing like the bath Conva had undergone to receive his place as tribe guardian, at least not until Hardin drove his dagger into Conva's throat and spilled his jugular vein out over the snow.

Krissen found it unfair that, even in the end, when the tribe silenced in horror as they watched their last hope fall—their cheers turning into groans or snuffing out altogether—Conva didn't get the dignity of having a fight as long as the one it had taken to initiate him. There was something wrong with that, Krissen thought, numbly watching the spreading blood eat the green of Conva's scarf as Hardin walked over to the shaman and gestured at his corpse. Emarose gave a low moan when Hardin proclaimed that their tribe guardian was dead.

_Not anymore,_ Krissen thought, looking at the hard line of Hardin's back as he confronted a protesting tribe member. He internally shuddered at the cold look in Hardin's eyes.

_I'm looking right at him._

* * *

It was spring, the ice cascading over the edges of the mountains in water again, and Krissen's family was gathering up their home and moving out.

Krissen and Emarose were untying the poles of their tent and pulling them down, shifting them into a pile, and Faegar was winding up the ropes into a neat, manageable pile. He had recruited Jaken, and their small cousin was tying up all the poles Krissen and Emarose pulled down into a bundle. Krissen's father took inventory, making sure nothing was being left behind in their move. He and Uncle Nothik took down the skin of their tent and folded it into a dull red pile. The Ermehn camp buzzed with chatter, as it did with every move, and Krissen and Emarose mocked each other about their slowness before Faegar shooed Emarose off to help Uncle Nothik and their father.

Hardin's warriors were the only new figures among the tribe, shadowy figures that drifted back and forth and kept everyone in order while they reminded everyone that they were going south, not north. It was the first time Krissen could remember heading south when warmth came. The Canid were inescapable blocks in their road now, but it was a gamble and confrontation they were all going to face.

Across from Krissen, Uncle Nothik debated with Rathan over what supplies they had to take, or if there was anything they had to leave behind to fit Hardin's pace. As of late, some of the ashes in Uncle Nothik's eyes were starting to rekindle. He hadn't worn his hood up for three days. He still believed fighting the Canid was a foolish move that would end with them dead, but he was engaging in arguments about it more often, and Krissen could see some of his fiery tongue returning.

Dead things were dead, staring at them longer didn't change things, but the Sratha-din _were_ dead; their tribe was buried and Hardin and all his escorts were dead, yet they moved with a fluidity fiercer than life and defied fate anyway. Their very existence turned the tribe's beliefs inside out and hinted that maybe, there was a way to fix things that were previously broken, and Uncle Nothik was going to cling to that until his claws were ripped out. Krissen wasn't sure of what to feel, but the thought that things could be changed was a quiet push inside him to keep going. It wasn't moving him as fiercely as it moved Nothik. But it was something.

A pebble bounced off Krissen's breastplate. He looked up to see Emarose, who had a satchel stuffed with tent supplies on her back. Everyone else was loaded down similarly.

"Hey, lumphead, you awake over there? Come on, Krissen, time to go," she said.

"Coming," Krissen said, and he slung a bag over his shoulder as he and his father picked up the tent poles. They joined Emarose, Faegar, Uncle Nothik, and Jaken as the tribe moved out, and they left the mountains, making a snaky trail down to the lower grounds. Emarose and Faegar shot insults back and forth, Jaken bobbed up and down in the pleasant weather and held his father's paw as they began their descent, and Krissen and Rathan piped into the conversations as they felt like it.

Krissen looked up and away from the mountainside. Up ahead, an endless blue sky stretched over them, and the other peaks were shadows of behemoths in the distance. Wind ruffled the tribe's cloaks and fur as they went, and Krissen felt like the breeze itself was trying to push them down from hiding. Hardin and the other Sratha-din were wavering figures in the front of the tribe, tangible and intangible as always.

He didn't know what lay ahead. But there was nothing to do but go and see, Krissen thought, his heart beating faster.

And so the tribe continued their trek to the base of the mountain, going down to whatever awaited them.


End file.
